Ann Beattie - Falling in Place

She was hungry. She wanted Bobby to come.

What a surprise it would be for Spangle if he did call, or did come back, and she was with Bobby. He would never expect it of her.

Of course he would call, or come back. One or the other.

She brushed her hair and tucked it in back of her ears. She went into the living room, to wait.

He got there not long after she had started flipping through the copy of American Photographer he had left behind. He knocked on the door, holding a bouquet of daisies, snapdragons and marigolds.

“How are you this evening?” he said.

“Come off it,” she said, sighing. “I’m hungry. Let’s just go out and eat, all right? How did it go in New York, with the agents?”

“Beautiful agent. Simply beautiful. Everything is all set. Wonderful lunch. Wonderful wine. I love it. I just love it. New York has advantages. Waterfalls don’t gush free wine.”

“Did you propose to her?”

She was putting the flowers in a jar. She put her nose in the bouquet to check and realized that the marigolds did smell like cat pee.

“I bit my tongue. She had on a wedding band that must have been an inch wide, studded with diamonds. Spike-heel shoes. Oh, I love them. The most beautiful women in the world are in New York. Imagine what hell it would be to live in New York in the summer. I love her. She’s going to be a wonderful agent. We had Vouvray.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Jesus. They wear shorts on Park Avenue. All those shapely behinds, those perfectly tanned legs, those painted fingernails and toenails, sandals with ankle straps. I just can’t stand it. I found at least ten women today that I would have been perfectly happy to live with for the rest of my life.”

“Where did you get the flowers?” she said.

“They were thrown outside the door.”

“What?” she said.

“My guess is that a cat got into them. There was some pink yarn that had been tied around them, lying a little ways away. They were still piled in a bunch.”

“Do you think Spangle’s back? That he’s doing this?”

“Spangle? I don’t think it’s his style.”

She put the flowers on top of American Photographer . The squatting model, with red eyes, looked up at them.

“Any place you want,” Bobby said. “You’re paying.”

“You make me nervous. I can’t tell when you’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding about any of it. Did I insult you by saying that I saw ten women I wanted? I didn’t go up to any of them. I kept thinking about you. The minute that I heard Spangle was back, and that you didn’t know it, I knew it was bad news for you, but it was such good news for me — I just had to call you and tell you. But I’m going to play it cool now. I’m not going to say anything more about your coming to live with me. You wouldn’t have to go to any of the horrible faculty parties. You could cross-country ski — that’s wonderful — you could, we could move into a house. I’m not going to talk about it. Do you want a bagel?” He produced a white paper bag. “Victor doesn’t even have to visit,” he said. “I can go to New York, sometimes, to see Victor. I just feel so sorry for Victor. If you knew what a good person he was, you’d feel the same way. I’m not going to talk about Victor,” Bobby said. He sprawled on the sofa. “What if we had never met?” Bobby said. “I can’t imagine it — what if you were always in New Haven, and I was in New Hampshire and we never ran into each other?”

“Let’s go to dinner,” she said.

“I’m obsessed, I know it,” Bobby said. “I know it, but it’s not just me. It’s our whole culture, isn’t it? What do you think? I was reading an article about the Shah, and do you know what the Shah’s son does all day? He sits in his room listening to Rod Stewart singing “Do Ya Think I’m Sexy.” Bobby bit into a bagel. “I’m so hungry. Don’t worry — this won’t spoil my appetite. I’m blowing it, I know I’m blowing it. I guess it would be unfair to you to pretend I’m not an excitable person. I was hyperactive when I was a kid. I think that’s why I lost my hair.” He swallowed, smiled at her. “Let me start over,” he said. “I’ll stand outside the door and knock, and you open it. Okay?”

“No. Look — I like you, Bobby, but I’m not really as amused by all this as I might seem. While you were hyperactive, I was in finishing school. I like you, and I think you’re interesting, but if you’re serious about my coming to live with you, it’s out of the question.”

“It’s my mother’s fault that I lost my hair,” he said, running his hand through the ropes of curls that hung at the sides of his head. “I can remember demanding candy and more candy, all day long, and she’d give it to me. Worst thing you can do for a hyperactive kid. Well — God rest her soul. I don’t want to start complaining about my mother. She was bicycling in Maine and a car wiped her out from behind. Victor came to the funeral. He hitched all the way from New York to Maine, and he made it with half an hour to spare. He and my mother always liked each other. He was crying so hard out on the highway that he couldn’t get rides. He wanted to be there hours before the funeral so he could take a shower.”

“Bobby,” she said, “would you like it if I went out and brought something back for dinner?”

He took out a blue index card and jotted down a few words, holding her off with the first finger of his left hand raised. “Okay,” he said, shoving the card in his pocket. “Ready to go. All ready. This is very nice of you. I can’t remember the last time I had two meals out in one day, let alone meals I didn’t have to pay for. This is very nice of you. I love you.”

“Stop,” she said.

“Anything,” he said, hands up in surrender. “Anything. I don’t mean to be disagreeable. I’m just wound up. I’m fine.”

She picked up her keys, got her purse, stopped and considered what to do about the ringing phone.

“You answer it,” she said to Bobby. “Say I’m not here, if it’s for me. Unless it’s Spangle.”

“If it’s him, I’d hang up on him.”

“No you wouldn’t. Answer the phone.”

“I would. I have to be honest with you.”

She sighed and headed for the phone.

“All right, okay, I’ll get it,” he said. He picked it up the second before her hand reached it.

“Garden of the Fallen Lotus,” he said, in a surprisingly good imitation of a Chinese.

“Oh Christ,” Tess Spangle said. “I dialed wrong. The last thing I need is some fried won-ton.” She hung up.

“A woman,” he said. “She said, ‘Oh Christ. I dialed wrong. The last thing I need is some fried won-ton.’ ”

“His mother,” she said.

“Let’s go,” Bobby said. The phone was ringing again.

Love was one thing, survival another. The magician was going to have to leave the East Coast, very soon, to do another private party in Ojai. Amazing how even living rent-free, your money just dribbled away. Movies were expensive, food cost a lot, sixty cents to wash your clothes. His money was almost gone, and he hadn’t made any good contacts around New Haven. He’d pulled a couple of rabbits out of hats at children’s birthday parties, but God — the cost of rabbit food. And living with his mother was impossible. He had to buy things for her. She wouldn’t pay for anything when he was around: All she wanted was to criticize and to get a free ride. She talked about how high her rent was, as though she paid any less when he wasn’t there. She was allergic to the rabbits, and he had to put them in cages out on the fire escape, and he couldn’t put them out there until that part of the building was in shade, so all morning and half the afternoon he was stuck sitting in the park with the rabbits .